


Wished He Would Leave

by elle_stone



Series: Wished He Would Leave [1]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Break Up, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-03
Updated: 2006-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it erodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wished He Would Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for challenge number 263, in which two characters must fight about something silly, and someone must win (or think he does), at the speed_rent community on livejournal.

This is how it erodes.

 

I could tell you about the drugs. Or the other men. I could talk about HIV and AIDS and AZT, or the notes that he plays on that out of tune guitar, or the footnotes in the books I read when I can’t fall sleep.

 

I could tell you.

 

But it wouldn’t matter.

 

Because this is how it all falls apart.

 

*

 

I used to tell him: We shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. I can’t.

 

And he never answered. He only clutched my hand in his. Or stared at me across the table, unblinking. Or sighed and shook his head and walked away.

 

He never said he loved me. But he never said he hated me, either.

 

*

 

He would sneak into my classes. I would catch his eye in the middle of a lecture, lose my place as I watched his hand scrawling careless, illegible notes.

 

And afterwards, with the door closed and the blinds drawn and the lights out, I would press his back against the chalkboard, he would dig his nails into my skin.

 

*

 

Those were the good times. Before.

 

*

 

He has the sort of temper that spills. Like water from a broken vase. I am the sponge that soaks him up.

 

I used to tell him: I won’t fight you with you. Stop.

 

And his cheeks would flush like an angry young boy’s, and his anger would spend itself out, and his fist would collide with the wall, half hearted and sour, until all that was left was the thumping sound of his feet on the floorboards and the click of the door as it closed.

 

*

 

They were silly fights.

 

They were about nothing.

 

*

 

He used to borrow my favorite books, my only books, and take them to his dark and crowded clubs. They got lost amid the fervor of the people who call themselves his fans. He came home bleary eyed, faltering, empty handed. We argued through the early light.

 

And I said: “Roger,” and “irresponsible” and “selfish.”

 

And he said: “Thomas” and “overreacting” and “irritable.”

 

I told him “goodbye” and he told me “whatever” and when I came home he had fallen to the floor and the phone was ringing.

 

*

 

Two in the afternoon and harsh wind was blowing scraps of paper and stray trash across the street. We stood on the fire escape. His hair was like this and his eyes were like that and he was drinking coffee. I remember.

 

He said he was sorry.

 

I leaned forward, over the railing, watched the people pass by on the street. I didn’t accept. I remember.

 

I remember his hand on my back, his head on my shoulder, the feel of him and the press of his eyelids down, and the press of my eyelids, down.

 

“You win,” he whispered. “You win.”

 

*

 

I know how we ended, six minutes past midnight, with two new paperbacks at the foot of my bed and his voice singing unintelligible lyrics in my ear. His feet touched my feet. I didn’t wait for a close. We had already fallen, and now we rested at the bottom of the cliff, waiting for our broken bones to heal. And when they did he stood up and walked out, and when I woke up, it was done.


End file.
